​Woman Writing a Letter by Gerard Ter Borch (1655), by Brian Howell

Woman Writing a Letter by Gerard Ter Borch (Netherlands) 1655

​Woman Writing a Letter by Gerard Ter Borch (1655)
 
She pushes aside the luxurious table carpet as if it is an irritant. The prevailing mood is calm, even with the rufous canopy bed in the background, hovering there, like an impatient lover, awaiting union. To say it is in the background is a bold claim, however, given that she is almost next to it, almost part of it. Yet the mood is slightly excited, anticipatory, with that quill in her hand and the concentration she conveys through her inclined head and body. 

Poised like this, she looks as if she is capable of ruling the world! She could almost be one of the officials at the great signing event of 1648, to which her own brother, the artificer of her current pose, was an illustrious witness. 

Her stomach gurgles a few seconds, but she knows her brother is used to that, even with the few models he employs outside the family. A little giggle is sufficient to dispel any possible embarrassment. Nevertheless, she wonders if he hears it and thinks disapprovingly of it. It is a recent worry of hers that he will lose his natural warmth and kindness as his reputation undeniably grows. 

When she asked Gerard what she was supposed to be writing, he simply told her to use her imagination. Given such bare instructions, she could not but think of the paintings for which she, her younger brother Moses and sister Anna, had already been the models when they sat for both their older brother Gerard, their brother Harmen, and even for their father. A triumvirate of talent! Not least did she think of her own paintings and sketches in which she fashioned self-portraits of herself. 

She was inevitably drawn to those other occasions where she had worn one of those beautiful satin dresses, invariably blue or red. She was anticipating with relish the next time she would be asked to model one. 

In truth, the bed behind, far from being like a lover, now put her in mind of a large, impatient farm animal, perhaps a horse in a stable, waiting to be groomed or fed, so different from her beloved, fidgety spaniel, and reminding her of situations that she would prefer not to think of. Strange, when such a piece of furniture should achieve exactly the opposite of its intended purpose. But she must maintain her expression of light absorption, she scolded herself. 
 
Gerard hardly needed to remind her of that. Yet that expensive Turkey carpet reproachfully continued to languish in front of her, with its looping folds and ripples lapping onto their neighbours, making her almost ache for something. Was it status? A vision of a life of comfortable diversion? Certainly, she did not want to be a mother, though she adored children. 
 
Sometimes, their father would gently push open the door to the painting room and observe their work for a moment. This made her self-conscious, especially when what was being depicted was a scene of a more intimate nature. She recalled the one where a man was propositioning an elegant lady. In that, Gesina herself was acting the part of a third participant, a curious, younger lady. There was a canopy bed in the background of that one, too. In truth, she would have preferred to have played the more elegant woman with her back turned, even if it meant that her face was obscured. 

She also thought of her notebooks of these times, her poetry and art books, as well as her album amicorum, in which her circle of friends would write amusing or laudatory words about her. She never had the sense that her scribblings and drawings were less valued than those of her talented older brother. That freedom, to not seek deep recognition beyond that imparted so generously by her friends, was a source of great inspiration in itself. 

Yet behind this, there seemed something hidden away. 

How much she had missed Gerard when he was away in Münster, but he had been back a whole year. He was always with such important people. But she was after all his favourite, wasn't she? 

And gone were the days of ill-bred soldiers slinking around in his paintings. Admittedly, they made occasional appearances, as did a trumpeter or two, and it was usually to convey a message to a loved one, a figure to be considered as love object. She did not mind such a proposition made by a gentleman of such standing as long as he were well-dressed, well-behaved, and not drunk, even if she did not experience such welcome effusions herself, at least in so far as such depictions were concerned, because Gerard would never have let someone of a dubious nature into his painting room. 

And wasn't that really what it was all about? How posterity would remember her. How many more paintings would she feature in for her brother whilst he went on to be adulated, as he deserved. But what would happen to her? She would be content to live a life, unmarried, without a lover, albeit there was someone whose name she had dared to carve on a tree and immortalize in her own watercolour. Perhaps her life would be that depicted by her half-brother. Maybe she would live on in the shadows and reflections that featured in the wealthy surroundings that he knew so well.

Brian Howell

​Brian Howell is an author and teacher living and working near Tokyo, Japan. He has published three novels and four short story collections since 1990. His novels focus on artists with an interest in optical devices, his short stories exploring more contemporary topics, often touching on magical realism and the weird. His collection, The Man Who Loved Kuras, was published by Salt, U.K., in 2022; his collection, The Fracture and Other Stories of Modern Japan, was published by Zagava in 2025; another collection of previously published stories from Raphus Press entitled The Study of Sleep and Other Stories on art themes was also published in 2025. Brian likes cycling and listening to podcasts (a lot).